


Of Slytherins and Friendly Drinks

by rainybookshopspoetry



Series: Two Quidditch Captains Walk Into a Bar [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: First Time, Getting Together, M/M, Quidditch-Themed Drinks, Some Half-Hearted Attempts at Denial, pub night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:15:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21554488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainybookshopspoetry/pseuds/rainybookshopspoetry
Summary: Marcus isn't about to sleep with the resolutely heterosexual keeper of one of the most respected teams in the League, but he’s also had rather a lot to drink, and Wood’s gaze has dropped to his mouth three times in the last five minutes, and despite what he pretends sometimes, Marcus is only human.
Relationships: Marcus Flint/Oliver Wood, hinted Viktor Krum/Ron Weasley/Hermione Granger
Series: Two Quidditch Captains Walk Into a Bar [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1391485
Comments: 21
Kudos: 252





	Of Slytherins and Friendly Drinks

He should have known going out for drinks with Terence and Adrian was a mistake.

It’s a mistake because Adrian’s right in the middle of a case that’s been plaguing the Auror department for weeks and of _course_ he gets called away just as their second pint is set down in front of them. It’s a mistake because Terence, who’s dealing with an exceptionally complicated incidence of spell damage and looks like he hasn’t slept in 3 days, turns pale when his wand vibrates and has to rush back to St Mungo’s not fifteen minutes later. And it’s a mistake because, just as Marcus resolves to finish his last drink and find some friends with less ridiculous jobs, the entire Puddlemere Quidditch team bursts into the bar, bringing with them a smiling, exalted, windswept-looking Oliver Wood. 

They’re fresh off a win, of course - they’d have to be, with the amount of jovial hugging going on - but Puddlemere is enjoying their best season in decades, currently at the top of the League by a margin of 683 points. This success is due, in part, to consistently impressive goal-keeping by Keeper Oliver Wood, but is mainly attributed to Puddlemere’s recent acquisition of famed Bulgarian Seeker Viktor Krum, whose reasons for relocation have never been confirmed. (Popular rumours, however, hint at Krum’s desire to be closer to the object of his affections, reputedly either Ron Weasley or Hermione Granger - or both, if the more salacious gossip columns are to be believed).

Marcus has no desire to fly with a team that takes part in the frankly mortifying levels of affection currently on display from Puddlemere, but he can’t deny the envy he feels at getting to share the field with a player as phenomenally talented as Krum. He’d gone over Bulgaria's plays for weeks after the Quidditch World Cup, memorizing the chaser formations and flight patterns and reading every half-decent review article he could find in the stressful months leading up to tryouts for the League. Marcus is almost disappointed he can’t see Krum among the crowd of exuberant players tonight, but it’s just as well, really - his night’s clearly not salvageable anyway. 

He's just about to finish the rest of his ale and Floo home when he glances up to find Oliver Wood walking towards his table, smiling and carrying 2 fresh pints. 

He is, Marcus thinks resentfully, even better-looking than he remembers.

“Fancy a drink with me?” Wood asks when he gets closer, easy as anything, and Marcus freezes. 

What the fuck. 

He and Wood have hardly spoken in the 6 years since they’ve graduated from Hogwarts - aside from brusquely acknowledging one another on the pitch or at Quidditch functions, they haven’t interacted at all. They’re certainly not at a level of familiarity to warrant having drinks together on a Saturday night, especially when it could be misconstrued by one of the vapid twats at Witch Weekly as a _date_. Wood probably doesn’t even realize how it might look - two men sitting close together in a crowded pub, leaning close to hear one another over the buzz of conversation - although they’d probably never start those rumours about golden boy Oliver Wood anyway, Marcus figures bitterly. 

Because despite being the sole heir to a rather considerable fortune, Marcus has known for a very long time that he can’t have everything he wants. 

He’d been lucky to get a reserve spot with the Falcons once he’d graduated Hogwarts after being dropped by the Wasps when he’d failed his seventh year, and he knows the only reason he didn’t lose _that_ spot when news of his father’s arrest broke was that he’d just played the best season of his career. He plays too dirty to be considered for captaincy and he’s too surly with reporters, and while he gets along fine with his team, he’s certainly never developed the kind of nauseating camaraderie that's clearly commonplace with Puddlemere. 

So it really doesn’t matter if handsome Quidditch players flash Marcus a smile that lasts just a second too long, or if a good-looking man eyes him speculatively when he’s out for drinks with his mates. Because for all the wizarding world is changing, despite the new laws and the rampant, gleeful speculation in Witch Weekly about which male Quidditch players and star Aurors might secretly be dating each other, there’s too much at stake for him to risk tarnishing his reputation any further. 

So Oliver Wood – stupid, idealistic, _gorgeous_ Oliver Wood – can keep his friendly drinks to himself, Marcus thinks. 

Marcus reaches forward and downs the rest of his ale, swallowing roughly and avoiding Wood’s eyes. 

“Look, Wood, I was just leaving,” he mumbles, turning around to reach for his cloak.

“But it’s not even ten!” Wood exclaims. “You’ve got to at least have one more drink,” he tells Marcus earnestly. 

“No, I, uh... I can’t stay,” Marcus mutters, glancing up at Wood, and he sees the moment he gets it, bright smile faltering slightly before he nods once, briefly. 

Except then Wood looks a little crestfallen, and Marcus feels a pang of something that feels horribly like regret.

Before either of them can say anything more, someone calls out, “Vood! There you are,” and fucking Viktor Krum appears at Wood’s elbow, holding an enormous tankard of beer and glancing between them with a furrow between his formidable dark eyebrows. 

“Ve are doing shots,” Krum explains to Wood, who groans good-naturedly, before turning to Marcus and adding, “Flint, yes? Your goal against Yarrow last veek vas very impressive.”

And then Viktor Krum is shaking his fucking hand and adding, “Come, sit vith us,” and it’s not like Marcus can say _no_. 

He follows Krum and Wood to a large wooden table near the back of the bar, where Krum introduces him to the rest of the team, who are passing out creamy-looking shots from an enormous tray in the centre, and then Krum gestures for Marcus to take a seat next to him at the end of the table. This leaves the only remaining seat - directly opposite Marcus - for Wood, who sets down one pint and immediately downs a third of the other. After one tense, awkward moment where Marcus feels the horrible urge to start making small talk, the team starts in on a rousing rendition of the Puddlemere chant and Marcus takes the second pint with a muttered, “thanks”. 

He and Wood both return to their drinks, resolutely avoiding one another’s eyes as the other players sing about fair play and fairer lasses, and Marcus blinks in surprise when the first drops hit his tongue. Wood brought him his favourite ale, an old Irish blend that’s almost never stocked in pubs like this. He glances up at Wood, absent-mindedly taking the shot glass Krum hands him, and he’d swear Wood’s cheeks have taken on a faint pink flush, but that’s probably just from the beer. 

They all toast - to Puddlemere, of course, _Jesus_ \- and then Marcus takes the shot along with the rest of them. It’s sweet, with just enough of a hint of vodka underneath that he knows he’ll be feeling it soon. Krum offers his own tankard up in cheers and Marcus taps his glass against his, and then one of the other players calls out, “Can’t start off our evening without doing a Krum shot, eh, Viktor?”and Marcus nearly chokes on his beer. 

Krum just rolls his eyes while the raucous laughter dies down - this is clearly not the first time he’s heard that joke - and then the player to Wood’s left asks, “Hey Flint, what d’you think your chances are against the Warriors on Thursday?”

"Pretty good," Marcus tells him honestly, thinking back to the match he'd seen a few weeks ago. "Our biggest concern will be Fitzroy - his aim's even better this year."

The rest of the Puddlemere team murmurs in agreement, and the one who'd asked him - Adams, Marcus thinks - shakes his head in amazement, adding, "I think his last Bludger landed on target from fucking halfway across the pitch."

"They say Corving's nose vill never be the same," Krum states matter-of-factly, and they all wince in sympathy at that. 

"The Warriors' Keeper isn't doing too badly this year though," Adams continues, and Marcus scoffs.

"Their Keeper can't guard his left hoop for shit," he responds dismissively, and the table immediately breaks into collective groans. 

"Wood ranted to us about Marchand leaving his left hoop open for _forty-five minutes_ yesterday," a hulking player named Anderson tells him.

"He's mentioned it at least three times this week," adds Ingram, a thin, weedy-looking man who's clearly Puddlemere's Seeker, fixing Wood with a look of fond exasperation. 

"It's a _beginner's_ mistake, any Keeper worth his Galleons knows better than to drift in the goal!" Wood protests emphatically, cheeks flushed an embarrassed red that somehow manages to look flattering on him, and his teammates all chime in with good-natured jibes, laughing as Adams ruffles Wood's hair. 

Then Anderson unfolds his enormous form from the bench as he stands to get them their next round, and the Puddlemere players leave off teasing Wood as they call out a host of drink suggestions Marcus thinks can't possibly be real. 

"You're right, you know," he tells Wood quietly while Krum informs his team that he'll make them all run laps around the pitch if they order the Krum shot again. "I dunno why Marchand hasn't fixed his fucking form already."

Wood's eyes light up, and after a brief hesitation, he adds, "He's fast, I'll give him that."

When Marcus nods, Wood adds, "He never would have made it this far if his reflexes weren't so damn good."

"Do you know how he holds up in close range?" Marcus ventures after a moment.

"You mean if you fly straight at him and try to intimidate him into letting you score?" Wood asks wryly, and just like that the lingering tension between them dissipates.

They're halfway through a heated discussion about whether the Warriors' star chaser is really back in top form following a recent injury (how she managed to sprain every muscle in her hand catching the Quaffle, Marcus will _never_ understand) when Anderson returns holding a tray of elegant-looking yellow cocktails.

"Dirty Snitches, gents!" He booms, and _honestly._

“They like Quidditch-themed drinks,” Wood offers, shrugging good-naturedly when he catches sight of Marcus's expression. Their fingers brush for a moment as Wood passes a glass across the table to Marcus, and he absolutely refuses to examine the way the touch sends sparks zinging up his arm. He leans forward slightly in his seat, sipping on a deceptively sweet cocktail as he listens to Wood recount the risks of serious hand and wrist injuries in rookie Chasers, trying not to feel charmed in spite of himself at the emphatic way Wood gestures with his hands. 

***

They've mercifully returned to ale when Ingram looks over at them and asks, "You two were Captains at Hogwarts at the same time, yeah?"

"Yeah. We er, had a bit of a rivalry, really," Wood admits ruefully, and Marcus snorts at the understatement. Ingram catches it and grins, looking at them expectantly. 

"I uh, may have booked the pitch during Gryffindor's practices a couple times," Marcus admits, and Wood scoffs indignantly. 

"A couple of times, he says," Wood mutters, shaking his head and looking equal parts incredulous and amused. "You lot must have taken the pitch at least a dozen times for 'Seeker training' just to reschedule a game two weeks later because that Seeker was injured, even though the git barely had a scratch!"

Ingram bursts out laughing and Marcus shrugs, unrepentant. 

“It was just so easy to piss you off,” Marcus grins, and Wood just shakes his head, huffing out an exasperated laugh and fixing him with a look that looks almost fond. A moment later, Wood's knee comes to rest against Marcus's underneath the table, and Marcus has to take a hasty sip of his ale to hide the way the touch makes his heart stutter almost painfully in his chest. 

"Besides, you got Potter, we needed to give ourselves an advantage," Marcus shoots back.

"Your entire team had Nimbus two thousand and ones!" Wood protests immediately, and Marcus grins as they get caught up in reviewing old strategies and Hogwarts matches and what he's well-aware was some rather blatant cheating on his part, all while Wood's knee remains pressed up against his own. 

***

It's almost an hour later when Anderson sets a deep violet drink in front of him that appears to be smoking, and Marcus realizes how closely he and Wood have drifted to one another, leaning forward in their seats with their hands close together on the table where they’d been holding their half-forgotten drinks.

"Dodgy Bludgers," Anderson tells them, his eyes sparkling with delight, and Marcus eyes the shot glass with suspicion. 

"The ingredients change every week," Wood explains, looking at his own drink a little apprehensively. "Usually it's not half bad, as long as they don't try mixing Firewhiskey and raspberry Butterbeer again."

Marcus feels even more dubious, but he's not about to be shown up by the likes of Puddlemere, so he clinks his glass and takes the shot with the rest of them, wincing at the way the sweet taste can't hide the burn of what's clearly a copious amount of alcohol. He's wiping a few stray drops from the corner of his lip when he looks up and catches Wood staring at his mouth. Wood holds his gaze for a moment and Marcus wants to shiver at the intent, dark look in his eyes, before he forces himself to look away, feigning interest in whatever story Adams is currently telling.

Because he’s never heard so much as a whisper of anything about Oliver Wood, Quidditch darling and fan-favourite, especially among young, pretty witches. Marcus would never let himself be so reckless, but the last shot is still lingering on his tongue and he can't help looking over at Wood again. He's staring down at his lap, biting his lip distractedly, but he looks back up through his lashes when he feels Marcus's gaze on him, and suddenly Marcus feels like he can’t breathe.

He’s almost grateful for the interruption when the rest of the team begins to stand and gather their things, wishing them goodnight and looking almost shepherded out the door by Viktor Krum, who bids them farewell with a final nod and a "it vas good to meet you Flint," one corner of his mouth quirked up just slightly.

He and Wood are left alone at the table, where they bundle into their cloaks and make their way out to the dark, empty streets in silence. There's a chilly bite in the spring wind but Marcus hardly feels it, warm from the alcohol and the weight of Wood's gaze as his eyes flick down to Marcus's mouth again.

Fuck, it’s not like he hasn’t thought about it - about what Wood’s Quidditch-calloused hands would feel like on his skin, and if his cheeks would take on the same flush he’s gotten from the alcohol. It’s not like he hasn’t appreciated toned muscles and raw determination and the obvious intelligence that’s clear in the sometimes brilliant way Wood strategizes. He allows his gaze to fall to Wood’s mouth, to the slight indentation in his lip from biting it earlier, and Marcus lets himself want for a second. 

Wood's expression shifts to one he can’t quite decipher, and the air around them feels stretched taut, thick with anticipation and -

“Well, goodnight then.” Wood tells him with finality, turning to leave.

Marcus blinks. 

“Goodnight,” he replies a second too late, cursing himself for his hesitation as Wood turns back towards him and fixes him with a scrutinizing look. Marcus realizes, with a sobering sort of horror, that there’s a very strong possibility he’s read this wrong, in which case he needs to get the fuck out _now._

Fuck _._ This is exactly why he doesn’t get involved with Quidditch players. He feels a nauseating sense of dread creep up his spine, and he's casting around desperately for a way to explain himself when he’s caught off guard again as Wood starts to smile, looking both relieved and just a little bit smug. 

“Had to be sure, didn’t I?” Wood asks him with a shrug, taking a step closer. “You were so reluctant to have a pint with me I wasn’t sure if I was imagining things.”

Marcus has to fight not to let his mouth drop open. He can’t believe he’s been outmaneuvered by Oliver Wood, of all people. He feels a sort of anger bubbling up that's reminiscent of trying to score on Gryffindor and being brought up short, of seeing clever Chaser formations that left his Beaters outflown, of a sense of defeat after matches that he would never admit was tinged with admiration. He’s suddenly furious, and he’s itching for a fight, cutting remark on his tongue – 

And then Wood is shoving him up against the wall and kissing him so enthusiastically that for perhaps the first time in his life, Marcus forgets to be angry.

The kiss is intoxicating, sure and aggressive and a little bit messy, and before he knows it Marcus is tangling his fingers in Wood’s hair and slipping his tongue in his mouth and tugging him closer. Wood moans a little in response, kissing Marcus thoroughly again before leaning down to suck harshly on his neck. Marcus has to close his eyes at that, letting out a rough, shaky exhale before tugging Wood’s head up so he can kiss him again, and he can’t quite bite down on a groan. 

And then Marcus is fumbling for his wand and they’re stumbling into his bedroom after a hasty apparition – honestly, it’s a miracle neither of them got Splinched – and then he’s tugging Wood’s jumper over his head while Wood clumsily unfastens the button on his jeans. Wood’s mumbling something about how he’s always wanted to do this, and Marcus thinks he says something in agreement that’s absolutely mortifying, but it doesn’t matter because they’re falling on his bed in a tangled heap and he doesn’t think he’s been more desperate in his life. 

***

It’s - intense. Electric. Maybe more intimate than Marcus would normally allow, but it’s so good he can’t bring himself to care - not when Wood kisses with the same enthusiasm he normally saves for Quidditch, not when the sight of Wood’s blown pupils and kiss-bruised lips makes Marcus feel like he’s burning up, and definitely not when Marcus’s name spills out of Wood’s mouth like he just can’t help himself. 

Then Wood leans closer and bites down hard on Marcus’s lower lip, and Marcus is _lost_ \- to everything but the grip of Wood’s fingers on his hip, and Wood’s weight pressing him into the mattress and the feeling like they just can’t get close enough. 

***

Later, Wood sprawls out inelegantly next to Marcus when they collapse onto the pillows, chests heaving as they fight to get their breath back. Marcus feels exhilarated and exhausted and a lot like he’s just been hit by a particularly nasty Bludger, and judging from the expression on Wood’s face, he’s not the only one. He stares at Wood a moment longer, and he has to close his eyes when Wood leans in and kisses him softly, leaving him feeling exposed and raw in a way he's never felt before.

"Goodnight," Wood says quietly before settling deeper into the pillows and sighing contentedly. Marcus blinks in surprise, watching the way Wood's eyelashes flutter as his breathing deepens and slows, before he hurriedly rolls away from him so he can't be accused of doing something that seemed horribly like watching Wood sleep. 

Marcus doesn't think he'll be able to sleep with the unfamiliar presence of someone else in his bed, but before long he feels the late hour catching up with him and his eyelids threaten to close. He’ll let Wood stay here a little longer, he decides. He’s just - comfortable, and tired, and feeling a little more generous than usual. And if Marcus doesn’t protest when Wood curls a little closer to him and drapes an arm around his waist - well, that doesn’t mean anything at all. 

Besides, he figures, sighing contentedly and (maybe) inching a little farther into Wood’s embrace, Wood will probably be long gone by tomorrow morning. 

**Author's Note:**

> the Quidditch Drinks
> 
> Krum Shot:  
> -equal parts vodka, almond Bailey's, and almond milk (or creamy liqueur and milk of choice) in a shot glass
> 
> Dirty Snitch  
> -2 oz pineapple juice,1 oz vodka, and a sprinkle of edible gold flakes
> 
> Dodgy Bludger  
> -equal parts moonshine and crème de violette in a shot glass, topped with liquid smoke


End file.
